No Escape
by Creedog VanDrey
Summary: There's a murderer at McKinley High with a grudge against someone in New Directions.  No one knows who.  No one knows why.  No one knows if they'll survive.  It goes without saying: Character death and a lot of it.
1. What You Deserve

No Escape: Chapter 1  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee_  
Genre: Mystery  
Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: There's a murderer at McKinley High. No one knows who. No one knows why. No one knows if they'll survive.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: So, a little about my process in writing this story. I really wanted to write a murder mystery in the vein of _And Then There Were None _by Agatha Christie (also known by several other, politically incorrect names). But since all these characters are near and dear to my heart, I couldn't face deciding who I would kill. So, I let fate decide and chose characters from a hat. One will die in each chapter. Mourn the deaths of your favorite characters and try to guess the identity of the killer.

* * *

Chapter 1: What You Deserve

The first thing Will Schuester did every time he walked into glee practice was to count heads. For the past month, he'd been counting to twelve (technically the count would decrease to eleven at least twice a month when a certain brunette singer stormed out in a pre-rehearsed rage), and he loved that number. It meant his team was eligible for competition. He'd of course prefer more, as the team hadn't really bonded yet and there was always the opportunity for a quitter.

Teenagers were creatures of habit. Unless the social hierarchy had shifted, everyone would be sitting in their implicitly designated seats. Rachel, was, of course front and center, her legs crossed and her hands delicately perched on the top knee, her face paying enough attention for three students. Finn sat beside her, looking quite like he'd prefer to be back a row. Artie was in his wheelchair on the floor on the left side of the room, the morbidly-dressed but happily-dispositioned Tina in a chair beside, almost on top of him.

Kurt and Mercedes sat side-by-side on the second row, directly behind Finn and Rachel, eagerly but patiently waiting while exchanging small talk, apparently concerning their clothes. To their left sat Quinn and Puck. Quinn leaned over toward Puck as if claiming her property. Puck sat openly, as if open for business. In the back sat Brittany with a characteristic smile and Santana with an uncharacteristic one, facing each other, absorbed in their shared world. Mike and Matt slouched in their chairs, not looking too enthusiastic, but with dutiful attentive stares toward the front of the room.

"So, unfortunately Brad is out sick today," Will announced, "so we'll be working with electronic accompaniment." He plopped a portable stereo on top of the piano. "Now, we're going to try out today with a new song. I believe that Tina has something picked out for us."

Tina walked to the front of the room with a stack of paper. "S-s-so we're gonna sing 'M-m-m-merman' by T-tori Amos." Without another word, she passed out sheet music for the song and plugged her iPod into the stereo.

_Go to bed  
The priests are dead  
Now no one  
Can call you bad  
Go to bed  
The priests are dead  
Finally you're in Peppermint Land_

_He's a merman  
He doesn't need your voice  
He's a merman_

Minus Rachel's attempt to take lead on the second verse, the song went without a hitch. It was a pretty song, though the response from the club was lukewarm.

"I-I don't mind Rachel taking lead, Mr. Schuester."

"It's your song, Tina. But if you'd like, Rachel can sing the second verse. Or Quinn," he added, getting the blonde's attention, "your voice is well suited to the song." Quinn just gave him a noncommittal smile.

"Okay," Will remarked, "we'll keep working on that. Okay, everyone hop up. I want a refresher on 'Somebody to Love'." The choir assembled on the ground.

Will placed a new CD in the player, but instead of music, a garbled voice dictated threateningly, "Hello, New Directions, I hope you're having a lovely day so far, because I have some bad news for you, one of you is going to die. No, no, don't get all excited, I assure you, this person deserves to die. I will be monitoring you closely to ensure my intended victim shuffles off that mortal coil. But I warn you, I have gone to great lengths to make sure that I have my vengeance, so I would advise you all to remain calm until I release you. Do not attempt to leave this room until then; it will be the last thing you do and I do not mind the collateral damage. Have a pleasant afternoon." At the end of the speech, the opening lines of "Somebody to Love" began to play, but Will shut off the player.

"Puck?" Will muttered.

"I wasn't me, Mr. Schue."

"I believe you," Will replied sincerely, "do you think it could have been one of your football buddies?"

"Not likely," Puck remarked, "Mike and I are the only ones on the team who know how to record on audio equipment."

Matt, Santana, and Brittany looked at Mike, who laconically explained, "I like to make dance mixes." He lock-popped his arms to demonstrate. Brittany smiled. Santana scowled. Matt just nodded.

"Okay, okay, it's a lame joke. That's enough excitement for today. Places." Will restarted the song.

After the first move, there was a loud _crack_. The glee members dove away from the middle of the room, where a small cloud of smoke was floating. Burnt bits of a chair lay in a line between the riser and the piano, and in the middle of them, Tina's body, bleeding from her back and her mouth.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, I don't waste time. These chapters are going to be pretty short. Feel free to speculate about future deaths and the identity of the killer.


	2. Gotta Get Away

No Escape: Chapter 2  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee_  
Genre: Mystery  
Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Tina lies dying. New Directions is now convinced of the murderer's intent. What will they do next?  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: I wrote out the outline of this story about three months ago, based on the predetermined death order of the characters. It's pretty much a given that most of them aren't going to make it. If I gave any reprieves, they were few and only to improve the plot. Now, I'm not saying I won't retool the story and save somebody if I think of a better way to move along the story, but no guarantees.

* * *

Chapter 2: Gotta Get Away

Tina's body lay on the floor. At first, the glee club at first was slow to respond. Artie was the first to approach her, rolling his chair forward and shoving himself out of it, crawling to her side, taking her hand in his, and whispering her name.

Seconds later, Will finally awoke from his stunned silence. "Somebody get the first aid kit out of the office," he pleaded. Puck was the first to move, running into the choir director's office. Will knelt on the floor on the other side of Tina from Artie, examining her back helplessly.

Up on the first row, Brittany began to bawl. Santana wrapped her arms around her best friend and began to rock her like a child.

"I'm going to get help," Kurt offered, walking toward the door.

"No!" Will stopped the boy, "that…" he pointed at the stereo, "_maniac_ said he'd kill us if we tried to escape. I'm your teacher; I can't risk of your safety." Tears in his eyes, he asked, "I know you're not allowed to have them in school, but I'm sure someone's snuck in a cell phone."

A total of seven cell phones were produced. They all dialed, but one by one they all explained that the calls wouldn't go through. "No service," Quinn explained. The rest echoed the reason.

"Found it!" Puck cried out, racing to Will's side with the first aid kit. "This stuff looks expired, though."

"We'll make it work."

"…by like thirty years." Puck handed his teacher the kit that obviously hadn't be replaced since the seventies.

Will dug through the ancient kit, pulling out bandages yellowed with age. Using scissors, he cut off Tina's shirt from the back, not moving her from her face-forward prone position. He found a dozen blisters marring Tina's back, many of them bleeding profusely. He used cloth pads to try to sop up the blood, but they all were soaked through in seconds.

Seeing Will's frustration, Santana called out to Mike to take her place comforting Brittany. One the hysterical blonde was wrapped in Mike's long arms, Santana leapt down the risers and shoved Puck out of the way, kneeling down beside Will. "I was a lifeguard a couple of summers ago."

"This isn't a sun burn," Will noted.

Santana didn't respond; she just placed two fingers on Tina's neck. "I don't feel a pulse." Will pulled his hand away from Tina's back, noting that the bleeding had stopped.

"She needs CPR," concluded Santana, rolling Tina over. She opened Tina's mouth but didn't do anything more.

"Santana?" Artie said weakly.

Pain wracking her face, she explained, "Blood—there's blood in her throat. That… that means internal bleeding. I can't do anything. We need help. She…she needs a hospital. Mr. Schue, we can't stay here." She eyed the door warily.

Mercedes spoke up, "Well, where's the bastard who did this? He said he'd let us go once he got who he was after."

"He said she deserved it! Whoever it was, _she_ deserved it," screamed Artie, his voice cracking with pain, "Tina has never done anything to deserve a paper cut, much less _this_!"

Mercedes bit back, "Artie, don't you think I know that? Tina was my best friend!"

"Don't say _was_!" Artie cried, "She's not dead."

"Yes, she is," Santana whispered firmly, "Even if we could get paramedics immediately, she wouldn't survive the trip to the hospital. She's not breathing. Her heart's not beating."

Artie screamed out, his words incoherent.

There was another scream, this one from Brittany, who started violently shaking in Mike's arms. She broke free and raced down the risers. "Brittany!" Mike yelled, jumping up to chase her. Santana, too, jumped up, but Brittany reached the door first and froze with her hand on the handle.

"Brittany, we can't leave yet," Santana explained, touching Brittany's shoulder. The cheerleader simply fell backwards, landing hard on the ground. Her eyes, bloodshot and dilated, stared ahead blankly; her arm was extended outward, a black burn travelling from her palm to her shoulder.

Santana dropped to the ground beside Brittany. Streams of tearing flowing down her face, she stated, "She's not breathing."

* * *

A/N: RIP Tina. And… Brittany. I _love_ Brittany. I can't stand putting her in mortal peril. My apologies for those who wanted me to save Tina. It just wasn't in the cards. Fate is a fickle mistress.


	3. Now or Never

No Escape: Chapter 3  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee  
_Genre: Mystery_  
_Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Tina is gone and Brittany looks to be following her. The club is trapped in the choir room with no sign of the murderer.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: I've probably started riling up my readers, and I'm okay with that. This series is an exercise and a game for me. It's pure pulp, but it needs to be. I do a lot of heavy stuff, and it's nice to take a break with something messy.

For those of you who feel like I'm digging your hearts out with a spoon, I'm right there with you.

* * *

Chapter 3: Now or Never

"She's got a pulse!" Santana called out too loudly, kneeling next to the unconscious Brittany. She began rescue breathing: a tiring cycle of blowing in breaths through Brittany's lips while constantly rechecking for breathing and pulse.

"I'm not standing for this anymore," Puck exclaimed, marching over toward the choir director's office. He called back out, "Matt, Finn, Mike, get in here!"

The three boys dutifully followed him in. Moments later, the foursome returned carrying a teacher's desk.

"What are you doing?" Will asked.

"We're getting out of here," Puck replied, gesturing toward the door. Will put himself between the boys and the door.

"We're doing this, Mr. Schue," Finn explained resolutely.

"I know," Will answered with understanding, "but don't go out there until I check to make sure it's clear. I'm still your teacher and I'm still responsible for your safety."

After an exchange of glances between the boys and Will, the latter stepped aside. The desk was turned into an impromptu battering ram. The door flew outwards, sending wood shards in every direction.

Will peeked out the door. It was now getting late in the afternoon, and with Figgins' new policy of saving money by shutting off the lights except during the passing periods, the hallways were dark. After Will was certain there was no danger, he entered the classroom and stated, "I'm going for help. I want you all to stay inside the school."

Mike took over for Santana giving Brittany rescue breaths, and Santana took the opportunity to ask Will, "There's an oxygen machine in the nurse's station. She had emphysema. I want to go get it."

"You can't go alone," Will protested.

"I'll go with her. It's for Brittany," Mike offered. Will nodded.

Santana turned to Quinn, "Quinn, you know how to do this, don't you?"

"Yeah," Quinn replied.

"I do, too. My dads and I take the training every year," Rachel chirped.

Santana walked up to Quinn, putting her hand on her classmate's shoulders, "Keep her alive." Quinn just nodded with understanding.

"C'mon, Chang," Santana ordered, and Mike got up, Quinn taking his place.

Will held up his phone, which still indicated a lack of service. "I'm heading to police station. I'll call for help the moment I get signal."

Will and the duo of Santana and Mike headed in opposite directions; Will towards the nearest exit, and Santana and Mike toward the nurse's office.

Santana led the way with deliberate strides, with Mike bouncing on his feet, checking in every direction, jumping at every shadow. Both were only wearing sneakers, but even the soft thump of their shoes echoed through the silent hallways.

Once inside the nurse's station, Santana wordlessly made her way into the back room while Mike chose sentry duty, peering out the tiny window of the door. Despite Santana leaving only seconds earlier, he was still startled by the sound of her noisily pushing a cart carrying a bulky oxygen tank into the room. Santana was frowning and with annoyance instructed him, "They took the damn thing apart. Look in those drawers for a breathing mask and tube."

Mike tore through the drawers, messily searching through them and not bothering to close them when he was finished with each compartment. "Got it!" he announced, holding up the necessary materials.

Mike suddenly found himself unable to see or breath as white plastic covered his face. He struggled against his assailant, who was surprisingly agile and strong, but the oxygen deprivation quickly took him, and he fell unconscious.

In the next room, Santana hid in the closet, listening intently to the sound of a person shuffling around in the front room. Unlike Mike, who was fixated on locating the accessories for the oxygen machine, Santana had seen the shadowy figure running down the hallway. She prayed for Mike, but the unknown person was being strangely quiet. A friend would have called out for her. Santana tried desperately to slow her breathing, waiting for whoever had followed them into the office would leave. Instead, he walked into the back room and Santana was now separated from what might be the killer by only an unlocked door.

* * *

A/N: Originally, a character was supposed to die a chapter, but I think I prefer prolonging their survival. I want to provide hope that some characters might just make it, though I'll keep them in mortal peril.


	4. I Guess It's Over

No Escape: Chapter 4  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee  
_Genre: Mystery_  
_Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Brittany and Mike are now both near death, and Santana might be in danger, too.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

* * *

Chapter 4: I Guess It's Over

Santana, holed up in the closet of the back room of the nurse's office, waited until the shadow outside her door made a move. If he looked into the closet, she was likely dead. He'd have to work for it, though, she promised herself. Santana Lopez was no victim in a low-budget slasher movie. She silently adjusted her pose from a sitting position to a readied crouch. She tensed her legs, ready to spring forward. She let her hands slide across the floor of the closet, looking for anything that could be used for a weapon.

The shadow didn't enter the closet, though. He just walked back out the door.

: : :

Matt entered the nurse's office, which was oddly empty. Santana and Mike should have been here. Matt, not content to wait and watch Brittany die, had decided to catch up with Mike and Santana. He'd even seen them turning the last corner, but now he couldn't find either of them. Until he looked down.

He saw Mike's lean body sprawled on the ground with a plastic shopping sack wrapped around his head. Matt leapt into action, tearing the bag off, only to find Mike unconscious… or dead. He pressed his fingers to Mike's neck, but couldn't find a pulse, not even sure if he was doing it right. One thing he _was_ sure of was that Mike wasn't breathing. Trying not to think about it, he blew a breathful of air into Mike's mouth. Mike's chest didn't rise, which Matt thought it ought to, though he wasn't an expert in these things like Santana or Quinn.

He raced into the back room, looking for Santana, but she was nowhere to be found. Her intended objective, the metal tank of oxygen, was lying on a cart. Matt assumed the worst: the killer had gotten to Mike and taken Santana.

Matt ran back into the front room, grabbed Mike's body and made his way out the door. Quinn and Rachel knew CPR; they could save him. He was thirty seconds from the choir room, so he raced out of the office.

A sharp pain struck Matt in the lower back not more than five steps from the door. At first he assumed he'd pulled a muscle, but he could bench-press a lot more than what Mike weighed.

His teammate fell from his arms. Matt couldn't help it; he was losing control of his muscles. He collapsed on the ground, seeing a figure above him, behind where he had been standing, wearing a hooded sweatshirt. With the lights off, Matt couldn't make out his face.

The figure held up a knife which was dripping with blood. It took a moment for Matt to realize it was his own, which would explain why he was lying in an ever-growing puddle of warm liquid. The figure leaned over him and Matt felt another stab to the stomach. If he thought the first stab hurt, the next one was a bitch.

Ignoring the burning pain in his belly, Matt turned his head to see Mike, still unconscious and staring at him blankly. As his own vision blurred, Matt's mind was not on his own mortality, but that of his best friend, who should be back in the choir room, getting mouth-to-mouth from Quinn Fabray.

: : :

Five minutes passed before Santana noticed the burning ache in her legs, no doubt from keeping them clenched for so long. She slipped out of the closet, expecting to be confronted with a deranged killer with a butcher knife at any moment.

Santana grabbed the cart with the oxygen tank and pulled it into the front room. Mike was gone. She grabbed the oxygen mask off the floor, avoiding the plastic shopping bag as if it were a piece of road kill. She peered out the window of the nurse's office door. The halls were still and silent.

She opened the door, but it collided with something on the floor.

* * *

A/N: Ah, our first glimpse of the killer. Poor Matt. Boy just cannot catch a break. I did want him to die a hero though.


	5. I Count the Minutes

No Escape: Chapter 5  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee  
_Genre: Mystery_  
_Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Matt lies dying after trying to save Mike, and Santana may be next.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

* * *

Chapter 5: I Count the Minutes

Using his arms to support his body, Artie laid his jacket over Tina's face and rested his head on her stomach as his body became wracked with sobs. Mercedes walked over and rubbed his back.

On the other side of the room, Rachel was performing rescue breathing on Brittany. Gasping for air, she gestured for Quinn to come over and take over, which Quinn did wordlessly.

Finn took a seat behind Rachel and rubbed her arms. "You're doing great," he whispered to her, repeating the sentiment to Quinn.

Quinn didn't agree. Pressing her fingers against Brittany's neck, she reported, "She doesn't have a pulse. God dammit." Quinn then added chest compressions to the breaths.

"I can do that," Rachel offered, "it's easier if we split that up."

Quinn grinned and shook her head. "Thanks, Old Spice, but you need a break. I've got it for now."

"Can I help?" Finn offered.

Quinn didn't reply under after she was done giving chest compressions, as she was counting under her breath. "You can't learn this from watching _Grey's Anatomy_," she remarked.

"Then show us how to do it right," Puck replied.

Quinn gave two breaths before answered, "Fine, get over here quick. This isn't something you can TiVo." As she pressed down on Brittany's sternum, she explained the procedure with the two boys hovering over her.

"She's pale," Rachel remarked.

Airily, Quinn answered, "Well, she doesn't go tanning with us… with the rest of the Cheerios, I mean. She somehow managed to get heat stroke in a tanning bed."

Gravely, Rachel pressed, "It means there's not enough blood circulating. Her brain's being deprived of oxygen."

"So what? It's Brittany!" Quinn snapped angrily, staring at Brittany's face instead of making eye contact with Rachel.

"Quinn!" Rachel growled.

"It should have been me!" Quinn screamed, stopping compressions momentarily before resuming, "Brittany's the nicest girl in the world. _I'm_ the bitch. _I'm_ the slut who cheated on Finn…"

"Quinn," Finn stated softly and sympathetically.

"I don't need your pity, Hudson," Quinn cut him off. "She was the best of us." Tears in her eyes, Quinn got up and walked to the corner of the room. With panicked expressions, Finn and Puck began performing CPR on Brittany.

"Tilt her head back," Rachel instructed Finn before walking over to Quinn and touching her shoulder. Quinn spun around, grasped Rachel around the shoulders, and began crying into her shoulder.

Rachel said, "It shouldn't have been any of us, Quinn. We're just kids. And you've got a baby on the way. What happened to Tina and Brittany is a _crime_. None of us deserve this, least of all you."

Quinn stood up, wiping her nose. "Your sweater's itchy."

Rachel just chuckled and Quinn did, too, a smile cracking on her face. She looked over Rachel's shoulder. In an only mildly annoyed tone, she commented, "Guys, you're killing her faster. C'mon, Pre-Op, let's do this."

But before either of them could take a step, Mercedes started coughing. "Guys, I'm feeling really woozy." Mercedes' coughing fit continued.

Kurt sniffled and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his nose; blood stained the lavender paisley. He did a quick scan of the room before seeing a water bottle in the corner with a green-tinted liquid. "Guys, I think we're being poisoned!" he exclaimed.

Quick to action, Finn scooped up Brittany and yelled at Quinn and Rachel, "Go!" They raced out of the room.

Kurt looped an arm under a half-conscious Mercedes and laboriously began to half-carry her across the room. "C'mon, girl, we gotta get out of here." Mercedes drowsily nodded, barely able to move her legs.

Puck put himself on the other side of Mercedes and they moved more quickly towards the door. As he got them through the threshold, he looked back and saw Artie was obliviously still lying on Tina's body. He silently indicated to Kurt that he had to help with Artie. Kurt nodded in agreement and Puck released his hold on Mercedes. Kurt struggled for a moment, bumping his head on the corner of the door, but moved along. "Stay with me," Kurt told the rapidly fading Mercedes.

"Artie, we gotta get out of here," Puck declared, pulling the neck of his t-shirt over his nose and mouth.

"It doesn't matter…" Artie replied, followed by a few coughs.

"Save me the monologue, Romeo Strangelove." Puck without fanfare picked up Artie, dropped him in his chair, and started to wheel him away. "We make it out of here alive; I'll make sure nothing happens to her, okay?"

Artie just nodded and started to wheel himself.

: : :

Santana muffled a scream as she looked down to see what was blocking the door. She saw Matt's body on the floor in a large puddle of blood. She used her foot to push him away from the door, pulling the cart with her. Turning the corner, she saw Mike's body on the ground as well.

She fell to her knees, dry-heaving. After a few moments, she was able to collect herself, and she got up again, finding herself kneeling in the pool of blood. She wiped her hands off on her skirt and checked on Mike. She held her fingers to his neck, not finding a pulse. She did a few chest compressions and a couple of rescue breaths before stopping at looking at the cart carrying the oxygen tank. She left Mike where he lay and wheeled the cart down the hall.

* * *

A/N: Well, it doesn't look good for Mike. It's heartbreaking killing off these characters, but their fates have already been decided, so really by prolonging their deaths, I'm hurting _you_, the readers, the most. But perhaps you're wondering if any of these characters on the brink of death are even going to survive. The answer is yes. The sad truth is that this story is improving as I write it, in the sense that it's going to be more gut-twistingly painful to read.


	6. I'll Be Back For More

No Escape: Chapter 6  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee  
_Genre: Mystery_  
_Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Santana escaped but is now alone. The rest of the glee club has fled the poisoned choir room.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

* * *

Chapter 6: I'll Be Back For More

The glee club rushed into the Spanish room: first were Quinn and Rachel, followed by Finn with the unconscious Brittany in his arms, followed by Kurt supporting the unresponsive Mercedes, followed finally by Artie and Puck.

Finn put Brittany down on some desks. Quinn and Rachel went to work giving her CPR. "How is everybody feeling?" he asked.

"My chest feels a little tight," Quinn remarked, in between rescue breaths, "and the back of my throat burns."

"Mine, too," Rachel added, as she pounded on Brittany's chest, "but I think I'm feeling better. Let me check my breath support." She began singing arpeggios in time with her thrusts.

Kurt laid Mercedes down beside the door. "You awake, Mercedes?" he asked, shaking her shoulder. Mercedes just groaned softly in response. "Mercedes!" he repeated, shaking her a little bit harder. Mercedes didn't even groan this time. "She's getting worse," he announced.

Quinn directed Finn to take her place giving breaths, which seemed to peeve Rachel a bit. Quinn checked on Mercedes. "She's still got a pulse. But she's wheezing. When Santana and the guys get here with the oxygen tank, it'll really help." She instructed Kurt, "Watch her breathing; if she gets worse or starts coughing, let me know."

"You're the best, Quinn," Kurt remarked dreamily, leaning in to hug his classmate.

Quinn frowned, "Kurt, you're acting a little…"

"Queer?"

"I was going to say…"

"_Not_ queer," Kurt provided, grinning, "which is queer for me." He started giggling as his body started to sway with misbalance.

"_Kurt_," Quinn called with a voice full of concern. As if to steady him, she grabbed his shoulder, but retracted her hand when she felt something warm and sticky. It turned out to be blood, which she soon discovered was flowing from the back of his head. Slipping off her cardigan and pressing it to his scalp, she asked him, "Kurt, you might have a concussion. Did you hit your head?"

"Yeah, but you should have seen the other… door. This joke's falling flat," he muttered with disgust.

"Okay, lie back," Quinn instructed, helping him recline.

"Yes, Nurse Fabray," Kurt purred, winking.

"Oh, this is truly disturbing," Quinn quipped. Puck chuckled, leading Quinn to order him, "Puckerman, keep an eye on Mercedes, would ya?"

"You got it, Babe," Puck replied, leaving Artie alone. Quinn tried to glare but she turned back to Kurt, who looked about ready to take a nap.

Artie rolled over to Schuester's desk, leafing through graded Spanish tests and compositions. Finding nothing to distract him, he headed towards Schuester's office, a tiny separate room attached to the far corner of the classroom. Inside, he found a desk and two small tables, creating a U-shaped partition, with one chair for him and one for a visitor; there was also a seven-year-old computer sitting to one side. He noticed extra materials on the back desk, which he studied with a suspicious frown.

Rachel stopped pressing on Brittany's chest. "I can't do this anymore. Finn, can we switch places?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied.

Quinn checked her watch. "It's been more than half an hour. If Mr. Schue doesn't come with help soon, I don't think there's any hope for her." The comment hung in the air for several seconds.

"For not becoming a vegetable?" Rachel asked.

"For surviving."

Rachel replied, "I'm not giving up. She's the only one who can distract the audience away from Finn's dancing."

"Hey, I'm trying to save her life here. I think a broke a rib."

"No doubt you've broken more than one," Rachel replied, "but it's the only way to keep her heart pumping. You know what they say: you can't make an omelet without—"

There was a profound _crack_ as the door was kicked open. In the doorway stood a tall hooded figure holding a half-empty vodka bottle with a piece of burning cloth stuffed in the spout. Puck dragged Quinn away from the doorway.

"This ends now," he muttered, tossing the incendiary device into the room.

Puck leapt again, his arm out-stretched to catch the bottle. He overshot and it bounced off his bicep, but he caught it with his other hand. He laid it upright on the ground and jumped back up and made one predatory step toward the door before finding the entryway vacant. He swore.

"You know," mentioned Finn, "if you could have done that a couple of times last year, we might have won a football game or two."

"We got to put out this thing," Puck noted seriously, looking at the flaming bottle as if it were a bomb, backing away, placing himself in front of Quinn and the others.

"Gentlemen, allow me," Kurt stated. Quinn's cardigan was tied around his head. He wobbly began dancing and singing, not on-key as usual, to "Single Ladies."

_If you don't, you'll be alone  
And like a ghost I'll be gone_

Puck realized a second too late what Kurt was doing. Before he could get there in time, Kurt kicked the bottle into the wall not five feet from him, his arms raised either in line with the song or to indicate a touchdown. The bottle shattered against the cement, splashing Kurt with flaming alcohol. The scream that followed was ear-piercing.

"Puck!" Finn called out, tossing his friend his jacket.

Puck without pause leapt on top of Kurt and extinguished the flames. Kurt lay on the floor, blood pooling under his head, his face and chest scarred, coughing. He asked hoarsely, "How does my hair look?" before his eyes rolled back and he became very still.

Puck staggered away, staring at Kurt's body and not the chalkboard which was now on fire.

"I tried…" Puck sputtered.

Quinn touched his arm. "Puck, the fire."

Puck seemed to snap out of his confusion and started beating the burning walls with the jacket, to no avail. The fire had spread too quickly. "We gotta get out of here. Go!" he told the rest. Quinn waited a second longer, but followed the group.

Puck made a move to retrieve Mercedes, but before he did, a creaking noise drew his attention to the chalkboard, whose supports had burned through and was now tumbling toward the ground. Puck jumped back and ducked, dodging the chalkboard, which crashed on top of several desks.

"Puck!" Quinn cried out. She, Rachel, and Finn, with Brittany in his arms, were in the doorway of Schuester's office, holding open the door and beckoning him there. Now blocked from the front part of the room, he raced over and joined his friends in the office, closing the door behind them.

"I couldn't…"

"I know," Quinn comforted.

"Kurt and Mercedes…"

"It's not your fault. You were very brave."

Once the group was safely inside the small office, Puck looked around. "Where'd Artie go?"

Quinn joined Finn in continuing CPR for Brittany, whose face was more ashen than usual. Rachel explored Schuester's desk, commenting, "Artie was here. There's bloody fingerprints from…" She tapered off.

"What is it?" Puck asked.

"Glee stuff," she answered, "sheet music and CDs. There's also some recording equipment: a stereo, a couple of microphones, blank CDs…"

"You don't think…?" Quinn asked.

"Mr. Schue? No way," Puck declared.

"It's probably just for making compilations for practice," Rachel added with too little conviction.

Quinn let out a sharp groan, pressing into her side. "Guys, I don't feel too good."

Back in the Spanish room, the sprinklers came on, extinguishing much of the fire. Near the entry door, however, the ancient sprinkler heads malfunctioned, causing a pipe to burst above Schuester's desk. Water poured onto the floor, but left the desk and chalkboard aflame.

Water pooled around Mercedes' body and she began to cough, gasping for air.

* * *

A/N: Kurt died. A lot of stuff happened in this chapter, but I'm pretty sure that's the part we're all reeling from, right? My apologies, but his number came up. I might as well just give you my address so you can all beat me to a pulp in person. But you're not going to do that, yet. At least not until you find out the answers to the other mysteries: What happened to Artie? Will Mercedes wake up in time? Who's the killer? Is Brittany going to survive? Where's Santana?


	7. One Day Too Late

No Escape: Chapter 7  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee  
_Genre: Mystery_  
_Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Kurt's dead, but Mercedes might have a chance. The remaining glee clubbers must now decide what to do.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

* * *

Chapter 7: One Day Too Late

The choir room was empty. Tina's body was still on the floor and the air smelled vaguely of pineapple, leaving a metallic taste in Santana's mouth and an annoying burning in the back of her throat. Brittany wasn't there, which means the other glee clubbers took her with them, but now Santana didn't know where to take the oxygen tank which she'd dragged from the nurse's office.

She hadn't seen or heard them on the way there, so she started off in the opposite direction, looking for any sign of her fellow classmates.

She got a sign after turning the first corner. There was a smoky haze surrounding the Spanish room. As Santana got closer, she noticed the orange flickering in the door's window. She looked in, but couldn't make anything out through the smoke lit only by a few flames.

"Santana!" she heard a familiar voice whisper, barely loud enough for her to hear. Puck had stuck his head out the door of Schuester's office and was beckoning her over. So relieved to see a friendly face, she forgot the cart in front of the door and joined the group inside the cramped office.

Quinn was clinging to Puck near the door, leaning heavily on him with one arm and holding her second trimester-distended belly with the other. Brittany's still-unconscious body was laid on Schuester's desk while Rachel and Finn performed CPR.

This angered Santana. "Why is Frankendolt repeatedly crushing my bestie's perfect abs?"

Quinn answered delicately, "We lost Brittany's pulse about half an hour ago."

Santana looked about ready to collapse, but composed herself and asked, since it was about anything else, "You realize Schue's room is burning down? Where're Elton and Oprah?"

"_He_ got them," Puck sneered, "threw a Moscow martini—"

"Molotov cocktail," Santana corrected. Off the confused looks, she commented, "I know these things. I watch a lot of action movies. Why does this surprise anyone?"

"Weren't you with Mike?" Rachel asked, "And Matt went after you two."

Santana looked over at Rachel to answer her question, but her head shot back away the instant her eyes fell on Brittany. "He got them, too."

"You saw him?" Rachel asked, shivering despite herself.

"I was hiding," Santana shamefully admitted, "He came looking for me, but then he was gone."

"Yeah, this kind pulled that ghost trick on us, too," Finn remarked.

Santana's eyes settled on Quinn, who was grimacing as she pressed into her side again. "What's up with you, Juno?" Santana asked with genuine concern.

"Something's wrong with her," Puck explained unnecessarily. "That's it; I'm taking you to the nurse's office," he told Quinn, before looking up at Santana, "Do you think you could do something for her?"

Santana wanted to respond with some scathing remark, but seeing the earnestness in his eyes, she replied charitably, "Look, I'm not a doctor, but there _were_ a lot of books in the nurse's office. We'll figure it out." She looked over to Brittany again and added, "But first I've got to go get the oxygen tank. I left it in front of the other door."

"We can't stay here," Rachel admitted, staring at the door leading to the Spanish room, which was allowing wisps of smoke to enter the office.

Santana said, "Figgins' office is just around the corner. I know that route by heart."

Quinn groaned in pain loudly, almost doubling over. Puck scooped her up and announced, "I'm taking you to the nurse's office _now_. Santana, meet us there, okay?"

"Yeah," she agreed, and then told Rachel and Finn, "Get to Figgins' office. I'll drop by with the oxygen tank before I head to the nurse's office."

At once the group exited the office, splitting up, Rachel and Finn with Brittany turned one corner, Puck with Quinn turned the other, and Santana made her way over toward the adjacent door.

Before she made it halfway, the door opened and Mercedes stumbled out. She was leaning heavily on the door and when she tried to take a step away, she fell forward, grabbing onto the plastic cart with the oxygen tank.

Finn and Rachel had already turned the corner, but Puck paused to watch. Santana called back, "Go! I got her!" Puck complied.

Mercedes, trying to take another step forward, misjudged the leverage provided by the cart, and fell forward, causing the cart to roll past her, partially into the smoke-filled Spanish room. She remained on the ground, awake but weak.

Santana was two steps away when a powerfully loud boom and bright flash rocked the hallway. At first, she wondered who'd used a flash grenade, but once she was able to pull herself off the floor, she saw the broken pieces of the cart strewn across the floor. They oxygen tank had burst.

Santana felt her stomach drop. Mercedes was lying across the hallway, her head and neck pressed at an unnatural angle into the base of the far wall. Santana ran in the other direction the moment she noticed the blood pooling around Mercedes's head.

The majority of the objects on Figgins' desk, including his computer monitor were lying in a pile at the foot of his desk. Instead, a near-dead Brittany was lying on it, and on top of it, Finn and Rachel trying to keep her alive.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" Rachel asked.

"What?" Finn asked, too absorbed in his task.

"Do you think it's possible to see someone and just know in your _soul_ that the two of you are _meant_ to be together?" Rachel asked, giving Finn a meaningful stare.

Casually, Finn replied, "I don't think so. I mean, when you see someone, you can think they've got a smokin' body, but that's not love. It's like hormones." Rachel's face dropped. Finn, who hadn't looked up yet, continued, "But I guess I think you can fall in love in high school. I mean, I was totally in love with Quinn." Rachel actually stopped giving Brittany rescue breaths. "But now I'm not so sure." This didn't make Rachel feel better, but it did break her trance long enough to remember to continue blowing air into Brittany's mouth. Finn looked up but Rachel was concentrating hard on Brittany, so he just watched her, searching for words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Finn noticed a shadow sitting in the anteroom. "Santana?" he called out, turning his head. The shadow was too tall and man-shaped to be the Latina, though. He had his arm raised, almost as if it were holding a—

The unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang out and the glass front of Figgins' office shattered.

* * *

A/N: So, my cliffhangers are getting much more brutal. Not to mention the murders. Now, Tina getting blown up wasn't pretty, but frankly the last few murders have been pretty gruesome. I'm very excited about the next chapter, for reason you'll discover soon.


	8. Real Love

No Escape: Chapter 8  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee  
_Genre: Mystery_  
_Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: The glee clubbers are being picked off one by one and have now split up out of necessity.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: You'll all be delighted to know that Chapters 9 through 11 are all already in progress. Or, you know, terrified, since we're averaging almost one death per chapter. Which, by the way, is ripping me up as much as it probably is you guys.

Oh, and from here on out, it's a bunch of WTF moments. Don't say I didn't warn you.

* * *

Chapter 8: Real Love

Santana was racing down the hallways when she heard the distinct sound of a gun being fired. Both her father and her older brother were gun enthusiasts, so Santana knew what a gunshot sounded like.

She dove into the crevice between a doorway and a wall of lockers. She gathered up enough courage to peek down the hallway, realizing that the gunman was nowhere close, so she continued on her way to the nurse's office.

She caught up with Puck and Quinn just as they came upon the bodies of Matt and Mike.

"Get inside," she ordered, "and don't you dare scream, Blondie." Quinn covered her own mouth to help comply with the instruction.

Once they were inside, Puck laid Quinn on the hospital bed. "Oh, God," Quinn prayed, "Mike and Matt…" Puck echoed the sentiment by punching the wall.

"Yeah, I know, I was fifteen frickin' feet away," Santana replied achingly, talking to the floor.

"Did I hear a gun being fired?"

"Yeah," Santana replied, "it wasn't anywhere around here though."

"Where's Mercedes?" Quinn prompted.

After a moment, Santana answered, still not looking towards her friends, "The room exploded. The oxygen tank… She's gone." She said the last part with morbid finality.

"Oh, God," Quinn repeated, tearing up. "Mercedes…" She dug her hand into her side.

"Listen, Babe, you gotta relax," Puck cautioned, staring at her stomach.

"I'll go check the stacks," Santana offered, making her way into the back room, trying not to look at the walls or the floor or anything else that reminded her of her almost-murder, but that proved impossible, so she just kept her eyes closed until she could feel her way to the bookshelves.

In the front office, Puck hovered over Quinn, running his fingers through her hair. Quinn remarked dryly, "I feel better, Puck. No need to act so clingy."

"Sorry, Babe," he apologized, but didn't move away. His hand continued roaming, tracing her arms.

"You don't need to pretend for my sake that you're still into me, Puck. I know you've still got a list of cheerleaders that you haven't tricked into bed with dumbass pickup lines and fruit-flavored malt beverages."

Puck took a step back. "Look, Quinn, when you're 16 and you think you've got your whole life ahead of you and you've _got_ it going on, yeah, you want to play the field and sow your wild oats and…"

With a syrupy sweet voice, Quinn quipped, "'Dear Diary, Puck gave me a speech that was straight out of _The Notebook_. I think he really loves me.'"

"I do," Puck disputed emphatically, "or at least as much as you can as a high schooler not in some crappy Kirsten Dunst movie. Look, I know I may sometimes be a cougar hawk—"

"A what?"

"Someone who offers themselves up to cougars."

"_So_ sorry I asked," Quinn grumbled, pulling away.

"Look, Quinn, the point of this little ballad is that I need you to know that I do care about you. Look, there's a distinct possibility we might die tonight, or at least me, because I'm sure as hell not letting that bastard get to you. I need you to know that I would have done anything, _anything_, for you and our daughter. I'm not the settling type, but I'd settle for you."

Quinn chuckled at the last part, "I do believe that's about the sweetest thing that you _could_ come up with without help."

"Not to break up the love fest," Santana groaned, holding up a thick book, "but I've got something for you." She pulled out a bottle of pills.

"I'm gonna go keep lookout," Puck stated and slipped outside the door.

"Not that I don't trust you. I don't, but those are pills you found lying around in a geriatric nurse's office."

Santana opened up the textbook and laid it in front of Quinn, "They're to lower your blood pressure. I looked up your symptoms; they're stress pains. Which isn't surprising. If you don't calm down, it could put your little parasite into distress."

"Fine. Give 'em here."

"Just one, Traffic."

Santana handed over a capsule, which Quinn eyed.

"It's safe," Santana repeated.

"Could you get me a glass of water?"

Santana rolled her eyes and stepped into the back room.

Quinn rolled off the bed idly and picked up a white plastic shopping bag she discovered on the floor out of pure curiosity. The plastic was stretched out and when Quinn held it up to the slight, she yelped, seeing the impression of a face in it. She remembered seeing Mike, dead but not bloodied, with his eyes bloodshot and lips blue. She dropped the bag as if it was on fire, and a receipt fell floated into her lap.

"Here you go, Princess," Santana remarked, giving the blonde a paper cup of water.

"'Watermelon lip gloss'," Quinn announced, "that's what you wear. Probably because Brittany likes the taste."

"What are you going on about, Preggers?" Santana handed Quinn the cup, which the pregnant girl took but set on the bed beside her.

She continued reading the receipt, "Two grape slushies. Nail polish in Persian blue. Maroon blouse… like that one you wore to Jackie Wilcox's party two weekends ago. Cotton shorts in slate gray, which I've seen you wear to cheer practice. A bag of Tropical Skittles, the kind that Brittany makes you buy _every _time we go to Wal-Mart, and you eat all the kiwi ones because she's afraid she's allergic to that shade of green."

"Why do you have one of my shopping receipts?"

"I found it in the plastic bag," Quinn noted evenly, pointing at the dreaded object. Santana's face fell. "The one I'm guessing was used to suffocate Mike Chang." Seeing Santana speechless, Quinn continued, "You and Mike went off, and Matt follows you, and suddenly, and then you're the only one who came back."

"It was an accident," Santana confessed.

"Excuse me?" Quinn spat incredulously, "this is insane."

Santana stumbled over her words. "I was—I don't what I was doing. _He let Brittany go_," she seethed, "and I just wanted to…" She made a choking gesture. "…like scare him and hurt him. He wasn't supposed to die. I had the bag over his head for like ten seconds and I saw someone down the hall through the window, and I was trying to get it _off_ so we could… escape but he was fighting me and I freaked, and I ran into the back room and hid and when I came back out, Matt was there and he was all… _stabbed_, and I tried to resuscitate Mike but I had the tank and it was either him or Brittany, so… I chose Brittany."

Quinn didn't look impressed. "And what happened to Mercedes again? She _blew up_?"

"The tank exploded. You heard it."

"Yeah, it was the second explosion I heard today. What are the odds?"

"Why don't you go check her out? Her skull's caved in. I may throw a mean left hook, but I'm not strong enough to do _that_ to her."

"We still don't know where Artie is. He disappeared then we found you skulking around."

"I haven't laid eyes on Artie since I left to get the tank. You honestly _still_ think this is me?" Santana screamed back, "You said you saw the guy who set the room on fire. Did he look like me?"

"So you have an accomplice," Quinn guessed insecurely.

"An _accomplice_?" Santana shrieked, "Okay, Queen Bee, let's pretend for a moment I'm a sociopath. In a way, I'll admit it's not too much of a stretch. But let me ask you this: would I do this… to _Brittany_?" The last part was almost a whisper.

Quinn visibly backed down, trying to respond, but Santana wasn't through.

"Even if Mr. Schue gets back with help in time, she's been on CPR for almost an hour. Even if she makes it, she's not going to be Brittany; she's gonna be a vegetable." Tears pouring from her eyes, Santana stated, "I've lost her."

Quinn picked up the pill, "What is this?"

"You still don't trust me?"

Sympathetically, Quinn replied, "I don't have that luxury, Santana. I have my baby to think about." Quinn backed up and opened up a door, pulling out a pair of cutting shears.

Santana took a step back and picked up a syringe. "Bitch, you best stand down. I've watched a lot of people die today. And, frankly, they are the only people I could reasonably call my friends. And my best friend… who I love… is _this_ close to dying. I'm teetering on the edge here."

"I'll take that under advisement," Quinn replied, circling Santana predatorily, "I'm gonna need you to leave."

"Oh, hell, no. You can play Buffy all you want, but there is a killer out there and I'm not gonna be next."

"And I'm not gonna be here when your next 'accident' occurs. Go find Finn and Berry. You're probably safer there. He's not expecting anyone to be there. And I've got Puck." Quinn stared down Santana, who stared back.

Santana's eyes drifted downwards and a smile crept onto her face. "Speaking of accidents, you're bleeding."

"What?"

"You forgot your tampon, Gidget."

Quinn and Santana's faces paled at the same time. Immediately Santana walked over, concern etched on her face, "Okay, Quinn, just calm down and get back on that bed."

"Get out of here," Quinn roared, shoving Santana away.

Santana shoved Quinn back toward the bed. "I'm trying to help you. Take the pill and—"

Quinn collapsed on the ground, her face in pain.

"Dammit," Santana swore, kneeling down beside her, "it better not be coming." She counted the months since Quinn got knocked up, realizing it was _months_ too early.

Quinn wasn't grimacing in pain anymore. In fact, she was just staring into space, clutching her breast. Santana laid her hand on top of Quinn's and found that blood was pouring out.

"_Mierda_," she swore, "what happened?" She then noticed the syringe still in her hand, now covered in blood, which she threw to the side. "_¡Chinga! ¡Joder!_ No!" Santana completely broke down, falling to the ground and scooting back into the far corner. Quinn was gasping for breath.

"What are you chicks screaming about?" came Puck's voice from the door. He entered and closed the door noiselessly behind him. "You want to lead Freddy Krueger right to us?" He took in the scene. Quinn was on the ground, blood pouring from her chest, and Santana was bawling in the corner. She looked up at him as if she'd just looked into the face of Death himself.

* * *

A/N: So… crap. Yeah, Quinn's number came up on the list, and I'm still deciding what to do about that. And, Santana… I'm not sure there are words.


	9. I Can't Stop You Now

No Escape: Chapter 9  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee  
_Genre: Mystery_  
_Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: A shot has rung out at McKinley High. This is the aftermath.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: I'm sure you all noticed that in Chapter 7, the killer took a shot at Finn and Rachel, and then I completely did not progress that subplot in the last chapter. Instead, I focused on the Quicktana, revealing a huge twist and leaving a massive cliffhanger. So, in due form, I'm going to put _that_ off for another chapter.

It's times like these I'm glad I have locks on my door and two trusty guard cats.

* * *

Chapter 9: I Can't Stop You Now

The glass window in front of Figgins' office shattered as a bullet passed through. Finn leapt off the desk and landed on the ground, leaving Brittany's body behind. He took a moment to take inventory: he didn't _feel_ like he'd just been shot, though to be fair he'd never actually been shot before, except with a paintball gun, like _a lot_, and it would reason that a bullet would hurt more. Then again, adrenaline _was_ pumping through his veins, and he'd heard sometimes that can mess with whatever that system is that controls your nerve endings.

Finn noticed that Rachel had leapt off the desk _backwards_ and was still rather exposed on the right side of Figgins' desk, so he dragged her over. She seemed rather limp.

"Rachel, are you okay?" he whispered, keeping an ear open for the gunman.

"My side," she whispered with a voice full of pain, clutching her waist. "It hurts to talk, Finn." She gasped, from realization, not agony. "It might have hit my diaphragm. What if I can never sing again?" Her eyes began to glaze over.

"Rachel," Finn pressed, "this is not the time to diva out." He yanked off his shirt and pressed it to Rachel's side.

"I can't feel my legs, Finn," she remarked, "I need them for dancing."

"They're still there, trust me. You'll feel them again when the doctors take the bullet out. But right now you gotta be quiet. You're gonna make it, okay? Just keep this pressed on the wound." Rachel tried to hold Finn's shirt into her side, but her arms were too weak and it was too painful. "I'm gonna go take care of this guy," Finn told her.

This seemed to sober Rachel up. "Finn, he's got a gun," she protested. She reached up, but her body protested. "Don't be a hero."

Finn listened to the door creak open and the sound of footsteps approaching the principal's desk. When he noticed the faint shadow of the shooter, he jumped into action. Keeping low, he spun out from the desk and pushed up on the killer's outstretched arm. The gun discharged into the ceiling and Finn slammed his fist on his opponent's upper arm, causing the gun to drop into the darkness.

Finn wasted no time charging the killer, shoving him through the broken window. The figure, now bleeding on the ground, got up and raced away into the hallway, with Finn on his tail. The hooded man made only as far as the trophy case before Finn was able to grab hold of him and swing him into the glass display. The glass cracked, but didn't shatter.

"C'mon, big guy, give me your best shot," taunted a voice Finn didn't recognize. Finn charged again, but the killer was too quick, spinning Finn into the cracked glass, which gave way this time, shattering. Finn screamed and pulled back a bloodied shoulder, unprotected by his muscle shirt. The injury didn't disable him. The next thing he did was reach into the trophy case and grab the 1993 Glee Club Nationals Champions plaque, which he threw at the killer's abdomen, knocking the air out of him. Finn used this opportunity to pummel the young man against the lockers. Finn kept the upper hand until the killer was able to land a good square kick to the quarterback's stomach, sending him backwards onto the floor.

While down, Finn took a few more kicks to the stomach; the killer also managed to stomp on Finn's right hand hard enough that Finn was recoiling form the pain. The killer used this opportunity to walk by Finn and pull out a hockey trophy, which he launched at Finn's head.

Miraculously, Finn rolled away in time and the brass cup broke away from its base and became dented against the tile floor. Finn kicked his opponent in the ankle, nearly causing the other man to tumble on top of him. Being less injured, the killer easily recovered and tried to scamper away, but Finn reached out just in time with his good hand to grab hold of the killer's hood. The killer lost his footing, but with surprising dexterity, shimmied out of the sweatshirt on his back, grabbing the trophy.

Finn was still trying to place where he'd seen the known exposed killer's face when the damaged trophy cup came hurtling toward his head. Finn held his hand up and turned his head away, but his hand completely failed to block the projectile, and the thick metal collided hard with Finn's head.

Even at 16, Finn still watched Saturday morning cartoons. So, when he saw actual stars in front of his eyes after the trophy collided with his skill, Finn in his delirium found the hallucinations amusing. The amusement was fleeting, though, as the vicious headache he was experiencing overpowered the relaxing sensation of weightlessness. Despite the seriousness of the situation, all Finn could think about was that the pain was at least… _fifteen_ times worse than that time Puck dared him to drink an entire 44-ounce Berry Blitz slushy in under 60 seconds. Finn had made the cobalt blue liquid disappear in an impressive 32, and the resulting headache lasted for well over an hour; Finn had been convinced he was dying.

Needless to say, Finn didn't notice the killer run off in the direction of the nurse's office. His thoughts then drifted from slushies to Rachel. He stood up, clutching his broken hand underneath his left arm, the task much more difficult that usual. The walk to Figgins' office seemed to stre\tch for miles and take days, but he finally stumbled in. Finn's mind briefly wondered if Brittany, who was still lying atop Figgins' desk, was asleep, and whether he should still be doing the CRP thing that Rachel and Quinn had taught him. This thought floated out of his aching head, so Finn made his way to the space behind the desk where his real objective lay: Rachel, who was lying on the ground, facing away from him. He gladly spent another two days making the trek to her front side.

"Rachel," he whispered, kneeling down.

Rachel drowsily opened her eyes. She hoarsely noted, "I wasn't sleeping. It hurts too much, see?" Finn noticed that she'd rolled onto her bad side and was lying on Finn's shirt so that it pressed into her gunshot wound. She didn't seem to be bleeding anymore, but there was a large puddle of stickiness staining the carpet.

"I'm glad you're here," she intoned, "I don't think I could I could perform my closing night death scene without an audience," she joked.

"You're not going to die," Finn replied, slumping down on the ground out of necessity and the desire to be closer to her. "You're a shooting star," he mumbled, "shooting stars don't fall in Lima, Ohio. You're gonna fall in New York, right?"

"Right," Rachel agreed through heavy eyelids, "but you're going to have to hold onto me."

Finn extended his undamaged hand and took one of Rachel's limp ones, replying, "Alright, but you hold on, too."

As long as they both could manage, they looked into each other's eyes and smiled warmly for the other. Neither remembered who was the first to drift off to sleep, but it wasn't long before both had drifted off into slumber.

* * *

A/N: So… Finn, Quinn, Puck, and Rachel lasted into the second half, as did Santana. And Mike and Matt bit it in the first half. This seems suspicious to me, too, but I swear that these deaths were in the order that was predetermined by my computer. I'd love to see what I could come up with a new shuffled set, but I don't dare put these characters through this torture again.

Also, it was not really my intention for this to become a Quickfinchel story. I'm completely (and frustratingly) unable to pick ships out of that quadrilateral, even an OT4. I'll probably balance it out with some Puckleberry Fuinn in my next story. I'm hardcore Brittana, though, which is why I kept Brittany hanging by a thread for so long.


	10. Why It Hurts

No Escape: Chapter 10  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee_  
Genre: Mystery  
Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Santana's crimes catch up with her.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: I've _got _to stop reading your reviews. They're breaking my heart, because I've written out the rest of the series, and I know exactly who's going to die and who will survive. And since every single character still alive has been pleaded for, I'm going to have some sad reviewers.

Listen, I've got more stuff in the works. Happy stuff. Stuff that doesn't make me look like the frickin' Grim Reaper, okay?

And in case you were confused: Finn and Rachel? Not dead yet.

* * *

Chapter 10: Why It Hurts

Quinn was lying against the frame of the nurse's cot, gasping for air, as Puck walked into the nurse's office. He glanced at Santana, who was watching the scene catatonically.

"What happened?"

Santana didn't answer; she just stared into the middle distance as if she were seeing a ghost.

Puck didn't wait for a response. He ran to Quinn's side. Blood stained the front of her skirt, but he was more focused on the red stain on her blouse, right below her left breast. Frantically, he tore open her blouse. Right below the cup of her white bra was a puncture wound, which blood was pouring out of. He pulled off his button-up shirt and pressed it against injury, seeing blood soak the fabric. Quinn grimaced, looking toward but not quite at him. "Screw this!" He threw down the shirt and grabbed the metal scissors off the ground, paused for a moment to consider what he was about to do, and pulled a lighter from his pocket, which he used to heat up the side of the silver blade. He did this for only as long as he could bear to wait. Taking a calming breath, he pressed the edge of the blade flat against Quinn's wound. She shrieked and lunged forward, but Puck held steady for five excruciatingly long seconds.

After he pulled away, Quinn simply collapses against his shoulder, not moving. Puck checked his handiwork: there was an ugly red mark on Quinn's abdomen, partially blistered but no longer bleeding. He felt around her neck for a pulse; he found a quick but steady one; her breath: shallow but constant.

He turned, picked up Santana by her uniform top and slammed her into the wall. "What the hell happened?"

Santana's eyes didn't meet Puck's; they remained on Quinn. "I-I didn't mean to. The needle just—"

Puck interrupted with a roar. "The needle? You… _stabbed_ her? _You_ did this?"

"She came at me…"

"So you stabbed her?"

"I…"

Puck lowered his voice, out of nothing more than shock. "Wait, so that screaming about you killing Mike…?" He dropped her and backed away. She landed on her feet, awkwardly, and immediately slumped down.

"It wasn't supposed to… I wasn't even trying to…"

Puck flailed around as if the world were turning on its side. "This is _insane_," he bellowed, kicking a cabinet, causing medications bottles to tumble onto the ground. He shoved the remaining medical supplies off the countertops. "Are you telling me you're a murderer, Lopez?" he accused more than asked.

Santana didn't reply, just sat on the floor unable to form words.

Puck grabbed Santana by the forearms and hoisted her into a standing position, pinning her against the wall. "Defend yourself, dammit! Tell me my friend is not some psychopath."

"It's not like that," she screamed back, finally meeting his eyes, angrily swatting away Puck's arms.

Snorting like a bull, Puck took a hold of Santana and shoved her into the wall again. Undaunted, Santana kneed him in the groin. He crumbled to the ground and she raced out of the nurse's office.

Her respite was brief. Puck recovered after only a moment and began his pursuit of her. His legs were longer than hers and he caught up with her in the next hallway, throwing her hard into the lockers. When he charged again, she kicked him in the stomach. He stumbled backwards, but turned his head to look up at her. "She's pregnant with my child! I supposed to be a father!" He ran forward again, bending low, and slammed the cheerleader against the lockers. He reared back and repeated the action, but Santana elbowed him in the back of the neck and slipped away.

"Puck, you need to listen to me. I'm not doing all this!"

Not even listening, Puck didn't respond; he just ran up to her and started pounding her with such fervor that she couldn't immediately fight back. He pinned her to the ground, his legs crushing hers and one strong hand tightly holding both of her wrists above her head. Santana struggled, but was unable to break free from his hold. With his free hand, he pulled her up by her collar and slammed her head against the tile floor. On his second pull up, Santana, head spinning, did something near-suicidal; she slammed her forehead into Puck's. He recoiled and she pulled herself up and bit him on the shoulder. This was enough to loosen his grip on her wrists and she used her newly freed hands to claw at his right side. He twisted away, giving her the leverage to squeeze her legs out from under him. A hard punch to the kidney had him rolling on the ground. She kicked him hard on the sternum, forcing the air out of his lungs.

Santana was now a mess: her cheeks and forehead covered in bruises, her lip split, both of her wrists sore and red, her knees aching, and her balance almost nonexistent. So, when she heard the familiar sound of Artie's wheelchair, she couldn't react in time to what she didn't see coming. Artie hit her full force with his chair, running over her legs. At least one ankle twisted out of place, and she knew she heard one of her kneecaps crack. Artie reversed his direction for another onslaught, but she was ready this time; she rolled into a ball, preventing him from being able to roll over her. Her plan wasn't perfect; one of the wheel pressed into her side, likely giving her a broken rib.

"I loved her!" Artie screamed, "And I never got a chance to tell her."

"Artie," Santana wearily cried out, "I know what you're going through. But you're making a mistake." She hazarded a look at Puck. He was awake, but still reeling from their fight, watching her struggle against Artie with confusion.

Artie tried to ram forward a third time, but Santana was ready. She spun so that her legs went underneath the wheelchair, and with her good leg, she kicked at the wheel. Artie's chair jerked forward and to the side. Santana yanked her legs back and used her hands to spin the chair's right wheel, turning it away from her. She tried to get up, but her left leg could no longer support her. She used to momentum to push Artie forward, right out of his chair, and caught herself against the lockers.

There was a distinct _crunch_ as Artie fell to the ground. Despite the blood pouring from his nostrils, Artie attempted to get back up. He used his arms to roll his body back over. Santana could see that one of his legs has gotten stuck under the footrest and was now twisted badly, but Artie's were locked on her with a fury she didn't believe the boy had. Distracted by his angry look, she didn't seem him use his weight to push his chair backwards into her. With only one leg to stand on, she toppled backwards. Her landing was less than graceful: she hit her tailbone and tried to catch herself with her injured wrists, which now hurt even more. She kicked forward on the chair, using its weight to her scoot away from Artie; there was another crack.

Artie showed no signs of pain as crawled back into his chair. Santana watched as he spun the chair around again, putting Santana back in the vulnerable position. His right leg was now twisted in a wholly unnatural way. He reared up to charge her again, but only one arm thrust forward and the wheelchair curved out of the way harmlessly.

Panic filled Artie's face. "What's wrong with my arm!" he cried out, his voice a little garbled. Santana scooted her way the best she could to his side. The right side of his body looked like it had melted: his shoulder was sagging, his eyelid was drooping, and the left side of his mouth was curled back.

Santana pulled herself up by his armrest. "It wasn't me," she pressed emphatically; "I didn't do anything to Tina." He looked up at her blankly, gave a slight nod of understanding, and then his right pupil dilated completely and his head fell back. He slipped halfway out of his chair

The color drained from Santana's face as screamed and leapt backwards, falling on the ground when her bad leg gave out. For the second time that night, Santana felt like she was in a horror movie, and she really wanted the nightmare to end.

Someone walked past Santana. At first, she was afraid it was Puck, but the jock was still where Santana left him, now passed out. She looked up; the mysterious visitor had already passed her, so she couldn't get a look at his face, but his figure seemed familiar. He was a tall, wiry youth with short brown hair, in jeans and a plain white tee-shirt. The hooded sweatshirt he was wearing earlier was now missing. He told her, calmly, "That's one mangled leg. You know, I'm not a doctor, but I guess that's what gave him the stroke or whatever happened to him."

"Hank?" Santana asked. He turned around and smiled at her.

* * *

A/N: I'm going to give Artie a more prominent role in my next fic. I lost track of him in the planning stage, so I just wrote his absence into the narrative. I wanted to do a little bit more with his character, but I arrived at his chapter and realized I hadn't given myself the opportunity to flesh him out. Oh, well, next time.


	11. Ancient History

No Escape: Chapter 11  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee_  
Genre: Mystery  
Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Santana comes face to face with the man who has terrorized New Directions.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: You know that thing I was going to do? You know, _not_ reading reviews until I complete the story? Yeah, that didn't work out so well. Rachel, like Tinkerbell, needs applause to live. Creedog needs feedback to live, like a radio or a review whore.

* * *

Chapter 11: Ancient History

Santana hadn't seen Hank Saunders in almost a year. He'd dropped out of school near the end of the previous school year, not long before she'd joined glee.

"So, I didn't realize there was going to be another player," he commented to Santana, as if their meeting was nothing more than the chance encounter of two old acquaintances.

"I didn't realize there was going to be a game," she remarked evenly.

"Well, that explains your sloppy performance. No offense."

"None taken," Santana replied, finding no reason to be rude.

"Hey, it's not like this whole ordeal went according to my plan," he noted self-deprecatingly, with a true sense of friendliness.

With timidity not common to Santana, she asked, "Can I ask... why you're doing this?"

Hank just chuckled, "You really want the motive rant? It's that like the dullest part for other players."

"Humor me," Santana replied, matching Hank's calmness.

"She deserved it," he hissed, venom in his voice.

"Tina?"

"Tina?" Hank scoffed, "Tina was one of my good friends. You know, I was kinda pissed when the bomb got her."

Santana's only reply was an inquisitive eyebrow cock.

Hank grunted with frustration. "I attached that bomb to _Rachel_'s chair. But then Schuester had you guys going through some dance routine and the one second delay on the remote trigger made me miss Berry and hit Tina."

"Minus the obvious," she asked, in full bitch tone, "what did Berry do to you to set you off?"

"You're kidding me, right?" Hank growled. Santana took a step back the best she could despite her injured knee. Hank's fury dissipated quickly as he acerbically mentioned, "The gay scandal with Mr. Ryerson? I got bullied out of school a month before graduation because some freshman diva-wannabe couldn't stand not getting the solo that I was due."

The words of the song Hank was singing that fateful day rang in his ears.

_Where is love?_

_Does it fall from skies above?  
Is it underneath the willow tree  
That I've been dreaming of?_

He remembered the graze. It could have been the gentle caress of an admirer; _or_ it could have been a subtle indication to remember to use his diaphragm. Hank quite clearly remembered that his breath support _had_ been sub-par during the song.

Santana's kind words broke him out of his reverie. "I can understand why you'd go commando because of that. She ruined your life."

"She did. But not because of the dropping out thing. That's a petty high school mentality," he dismissed. "She _literally_ ruined my life. My parents sent me to therapy because I was depressed about the whole ordeal. It turns out my therapist was just as much of a closet case as Ryerson. Only he was an honest-to-God predator."

: : :

Hank was seated in a cushioned seat, talking to an older gentleman in a suit. "It's not like I ever really thought I was gay. I mean, I was in show choir, but I have a girlfriend. Or had one. And she's hot. But, after being called 'fag' a thousand times, you got to wonder..."

Hank bowed his head into his hands. The psychiatrist smiled lecherously. Sympathetically, he told his patient, "Hank, it's perfectly okay to ask yourself these questions. Can I get you a glass of water?" Without waiting for a reply, he got up and poured two glasses of water from a pitcher, dropping a white tablet in one of them, which he handed to Hank.

"Thanks," Hank replied.

"My pleasure."

: : :

"Damn."

"Yeah, and I didn't do anything about it. I was in such a bad place." A smile spread across his face, "Then I met a familiar face in the waiting room. You know, Brad, the pianist?"

"Oh, is that his name? Mr. Schue's never introduced him, so we Cheerios just call him Tinkles."

"That explains a lot. He was there because he has a massive inferiority complex. I mean, the man can play dozens, probably hundreds, of songs by heart, several of them in multiple keys, and no one gives him any respect. They treat him like a prop."

Delicately, Santana asked, "What does that have to do with tonight?"

As if it were the most obvious thing in the world, Hank replied, "He introduced me to the games." He looked at her suspiciously.

"Oh!" Santana remarked, "I'm slow." She nodded knowingly.

"It's how he copes with his perceived inadequacy. He kills. I'm not surprised you didn't realize Brad was one of us. He's a genius; he's been doing this for three years and the F.B.I.'s not caught a whiff of him, because he's hardcore paranoid about covering his tracks. He trained me to do the same: don't accept failure, don't leave until you're clear."

"Clear?"

"No witnesses. For example, my first kill was with Dr. Pryor..."

: : :

Dr. Pryor handed Hank a glass of water, the pill still fizzing at the bottom. Hank pretended not to notice it.

"Dr. Pryor," he interrupted, placing his hand on top of Pryor's glass, as if touching his hand, "I want to thank you. These sessions really do help me."

Pryor just gazed at Hank with affection, completely oblivious to the dozen pills falling into his drink, dissolving in seconds.

Hank pretended to take a sip and Pryor eagerly gulped down half of his glass, seconds before collapsing to the group, coughing furiously. Hank watched the scene with eerie serenity. When Pryor finally stopped twitching, Hank made his way to the psychiatrist's desk; with a latex glove, he pulled out a bottle of pills from Pryor's desk drawer, uncapped the bottle, and dropped it to the ground right in front of the body. He took Pryor's notes with him back to the desk and carefully duplicated his handwriting, scribbling "I'm a bad man" on a memo pad.

Hank then pulled out a tape recorder and pressed the desk phone's intercom button. Pryor's voice stated through the device, "Sheila, give me five minutes and send in the next patient." Hank then left via the side door, bypassing the receptionist's desk.

When the police visited Hank that night, he told them that the session had gone the same as always, though Dr. Pryor seemed, "I don't know... more sad or guilty, I guess."

The cop was either an idiot or uncomfortable with the situation, because he went through ten excruciating minutes of dumb questions before he finally asking if Dr. Pryor had ever done anything "untoward" to Hank. Hank broke down, telling him of the horrors he'd experienced during his sessions.

The cop was moved. He ought to be; Hank had been practicing the performance for two days straight. Hank had been acting in plays since he was six, including seven years of middle school and high school drama club. The police never asked any more questions and Pryor's death was ruled a suicide.

: : :

"It's why I chose a bomb for tonight. People are so used to seeing guns on TV, they think too clearly after a gunshot: they chase after you or call the cops. Bombs plant the idea of terrorism in people, so they panic, they shut down, they blindly follow directions."

"The tape. You told us to stay in the room."

"Yeah. I just needed to maintain control until I was sure Berry was dead."

"So the door?" Santana pointed out angrily.

Hank sighed. "It was meant as a warning. You know as well as I do that Brittany is the last person I would want to hurt." He put a hand over his heart. "You can blame the ADA for her. If that had been a regular doorknob, she would have gotten a mild shock and then no else would have ventured toward that door. But because it was one of those handicap-accessible handles, her hand got wedged in there."

Santana glared at Hank, but he was lost in his rant. Santana was lost in the memory of Brittany's body becoming very still as the girl touched the handle.

Hank continued, "Next thing I know, the jocks are breaking down the door and I've got containment issues. Schuester went one way and you and that Asian jock went the other, so I followed you. Then what do I find but Miss Santana Lopez is suffocating a football player. You know, in all the time we've known each other, I never detected anything queer about you. But it looks like you play the game."

: : :

Santana glared at Mike from inside the back room, the image of Brittany's body still fresh in her mind. She pulled a white plastic Wal-Mart sack out of her schoolbag, quietly walked into the room, and draped it over Mike's head. He struggled, but Santana pulled back, tears in her eyes.

A shadow outside the door caught Santana's eye and she fled in the back room. Mike struggled with the bag for several seconds before passing out on the ground.

The shadow got closer to the door and entered. He checked the back room but found no one, not bothering with the closet. He walked back into the front room, his eyes falling on Mike's body, which he frantically ran to. Moments later, he rushed out the door with Mike. A second shadow followed the pair.

: : :

"You're the one who..."

"Saved your ass? Yeah. Who else?" He pulled out the knife and slid it across the floor, to Santana, who picked it up and examined the dry blood on it. "A little souvenir. Maybe you'll be more prepared next time."

Santana just shook her head.

"So, as a professional courtesy: so I let you be. I'm never one to Dexter another player. Plus, I had a situation to contain. Schuester was still running about."

Santana's heart dropped.

"Couldn't find him, though. He must have left the school. Bad move on my part not chasing him first, but I knew he'd have to travel a ways before he got reception again."

"You caused the lack of cell reception?"

"Yeah, I wasn't taking any chances on the cops coming too early."

"Where did you get a jammer?"

Hank laughed. "Someone's been watching too many action movies. I just cut the power supply to the nearest cell tower."

"So, the poison gas in the choir room?"

Hank seemed surprised by this. "That explains it!" Hank remarked, "I figured everyone had just fled." He slowed down and explained, "You see, Brad's M.O. is chlorine gas. Nowadays, no one ever uses it as a murder weapon. Cops just assume it's a household chemical accident. Anyway, he put a pop bottle bomb in the back of the room for me. It was a blunt way of just killing everyone in the room if things got hairy. Those idiot jocks must have knocked it over when the burst through the door like Neanderthals. Anyway, I caught up with them in Schuester's room. It figured you'd all run there."

"The Molotov cocktail."

"It was in my bag of tricks. I threw it right at Berry, but Mohawk here thought he'd play quarterback."

Glancing at the unconscious Puck, Santana didn't bother to correct his football metaphor.

"I didn't stick around to see what happened, but _something_ happened, 'cause that room caught fire somehow. I was ready to call it a night, let Berry go up in flames, but then I saw you all walking out of Schuester's office. I did the first smart thing I did all night and went after Berry." Santana softly gasped with horror, but Hank asked a question before she could react, "What was that explosion?"

Santana recovered. "Oxygen tank blew up. Killed Mercedes." The image of Mercedes' broken neck flashed in Santana's mind; she shivered.

"Oh, wow, that's freaky. Or did you plan that?"

Santana asked sadly, "And you got Rachel?"

Hank smiled, "Yeah, shot her. That freakishly tall football player came after me, which is exactly why I didn't want to use guns in the first place. We had a little knockdown." He gestured toward his bruises. "Though, nothing like what you and Mohawk got into. Whew, baby. And Artie? The two of us had some good times, but _that_ was a sweet fight."

Santana smiled sheepishly.

"Hey, what happened to... head bitch cheerleader? Quinn?"

"I stabbed her with a needle in the heart," Santana remarked flatly.

Hank patted her on the shoulder, "Way to go, Lopez. You may have started out wobbly, but you've really come back strong."

Santana just nodded.

"So it's true then?" came a voice that was not Hank's, but Puck's. Puck was standing unsteadily on the ground. His gaze burned into Santana. "You know, I knew you were a bitch, Lopez, but I never figured you'd be capable of this. You realize that those freaks, the ones we slushied and locked in port-a-potties and did all that other crap to, are now our friends? You don't think I notice that you always want Tina to put on your makeup at our shows? You want to know how many times I've had Artie give me voice lessons? _Two_," he noted, impressed with the figure himself. "And what about us?"

"There is not an 'us', Puckerman. We're not a thing. We just screwed."

"I'm not talking about sex, Santana. You know you're the only girl I would _dare_ hang out with so much without getting any. We were _buds_."

A tear formed in Santana's eyes.

Puck charged her. Santana, with all her injuries, was helpless to move in time, but Hank interceded, ducking low as to clothesline Puck at the thighs, causing him to flip over and land hard on his back. Blood began to trickle from the side of his mouth.

Hank was restless on his feet from an adrenaline rush. "Don't worry about it; I've got your back. You know, we make a pretty good team. I can tell you're new at this. The emotions get easier to suppress the more you do it."

Santana just nodded, smiling. She pressed two fingers to Puck's neck. Unable to feel a pulse, she yanked back immediately, "Well, he's taken care of."

"So, I've got to do a little cleanup. I dropped my gun in Figgins' office and I've got to bleach the hallway; my DNA's everywhere because of that fight with the big jock." He unceremoniously tossed Artie's body out of his wheelchair. "Here, I'll help you up. That knee looks pretty bad." Santana accepted his help in setting her in Artie's wheelchair. "So, why don't you tell me how you got into the Game?"

"My pleasure," Santana replied, smiling evilly.

* * *

A/N: If that didn't feel like a good resolution, that's because it's not. There are two more chapters left. Expect more knife-twisting.

If the reference was too obscure for you, Hank Saunders was the character in the pilot that Rachel accuses Sandy of molesting who we never see again. He was played by musician Ben Bledsoe. As a subtle clue to the killer's true identity, all of the chapters so far have been named after songs by him or his band _Natural_.


	12. How She Makes Me Feel

No Escape: Chapter 12  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee_  
Genre: Mystery  
Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Santana explains to Hank what pushed her off the edge.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: So, I was a good boy and didn't read any of your reviews. I will read them once the story is complete. It was just too hard seeing all those pleas for characters to survive. So, I went back to my original plan, and I'm sticking with it. And because I'm not completely heartless, one more person will be saved.

* * *

Chapter 12: How She Makes Me Feel

"So, why don't you tell me how you got into the Game?" Hank asked, rolling Santana down the hallway in Artie's wheelchair.

"My pleasure," Santana replied. She got as comfortable in the wheelchair as she could knowing someone had died in it less than ten minutes ago. Not just anyone; someone she'd sort of befriended.

Hank, noticing her silence, asked, "What was your trigger? Something Freudian?"

"Brittany," Santana remarked plainly.

"Brittany? Now you're just messing with me. _You_ may have slipped under my radar, but there is no way Brittany is one of us. She wouldn't hurt a fly."

"No, she wouldn't," Santana agreed, her voice near a whisper. "I loved her."

Hank paused momentarily. "Oh, wow, repressed sexuality. We're two of a kind, aren't we?" Santana didn't answer his question and he didn't wait for a reply. "So, when Brittany and I were together, you didn't hate me, did you? I know we were more friends-of-a-friend..."

Santana cut him off, "This happened after you... left. She was pretty upset by it."

"Yeah, that was mostly my fault. I was in a really bad place and I didn't want to expose it to her, and I was mad that she was part of that popular clique that tormented me. Did she think I was just being a typical guy and brushing her off?"

"She didn't; I did." Santana continued, not dwelling on any part of the story too long, "Anyway, after school got out, we started spending all our time together like always. She was still pretty bummed, so I spent a lot of time comforting her, and..."

"This sounds like cliché lesbian erotica," Hank butt in.

"It was," Santana commented humorously.

"So then what happened?"

"Nothing. We kept at it, in secret. It was just like being best friends with benefits. I dated Puck for a while. Going out was just our excuse to get into each others' pants. We were only official because we were the beta couple and it was part of keeping up appearances. Anyway, I eventually dumped it, but we stayed friends. He may be a jerk, but I'm a bitch, so we had a lot in common." Hank actually laughed at that. "He was still a dog, but then he started acting like such a pussy when it came to Quinn." Santana scoffed, "He was falling in love with her."

"Where's this going?" Hank asked curiously.

"It made me realize why I never really connected, like, emotionally..." She rolled her eyes. "...with Puck, or Matt, or any of the other guys I 'dated.' It wasn't because I was a bad-ass. Well, okay, it wasn't _just_ because I was a bad-ass..." Santana's pride turned to solemnity, "...it was because I was head-over-heels in love with Brittany. Being bisexual wasn't a revelation: I liked doing it with guys, and I like doing with girls, or at least Brittany, but I just kept that tidbit to myself. But I never realized what it mean, the way I acted around Brittany: all soft and gooey, touchy-feely; and how I felt about her: protective, possessive. It was because I was crazy about her."

Santana looked up, realizing that Hank had stopped them in front of Figgins' office. Through the window, Santana could see Brittany's body lying flat on the principal's desk. She looked like Sleeping Beauty. _Sleeping Beauty_ was one of Brittany's favorite movies, though she'd never seen it all the way through because she was still frightened by the scene where the prince fought the evil witch after she turned into a dragon. Santana wished that Brittany could wake up if she laid a kiss on her lips. She knew that was impossible, though. The gunshot was ages ago, meaning Brittany hadn't been given resuscitation for far too long. A grey pallor had already enveloped her fair skin.

"I'm sorry, you know," Hank muttered.

"You told us to stay in the room. Brittany didn't listen. It was an accident."

"So, going back... let me guess," Hank stated knowingly, "you told her your feelings and she rejected you. It was too much for you, so you lashed out on the world, became one of us."

"No," Santana answered firmly, "she felt the same way. She loved everything about me. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with me." Tears filled Santana's eyes.

"So, what happened to turn you into a killer?"

"She died. Murdered."

Hank took a step back, sputtering, "Wait, that happened _tonight_. You said you were a player in the Game."

Santana spun around in the chair, pulled out the knife Hank had given her, and nonchalantly dug it into his stomach. With a gasp, he collapsed to the floor. Santana rolled forward, right over Hank's hand, not caring in the least. From her position above him, she growled, "What the _hell_ are you talking about, the 'Game'?"

"The Most Dangerous Game," Hank replied, reeling from the attack, "Serial killing?"

Her tone acidic, Santana ridiculed Hank, "So not only are you a psychopath, you're a dumb-ass, too. The 'game' in _The Most Dangerous Game_ doesn't refer to the actual act of killing. It's in the hunting sense, referring to the _prey_. In other words, it's not about you, it's about _us_, the victims. Since you haven't read the book, let me spoil it for you: the killer makes the same vocabulary mistake that you just did and then he's killed by the man he was chasing."

Santana got out of Artie's chair as gracefully as she could and situated herself by Hank's side with her bad leg stretched out. Hank reached out to fight back, but Santana swiftly grabbed the handle of the blade and twisted it a quarter-turn. Hank screamed out in agony.

Santana told him heatedly, "I didn't mean to kill any of them: Mike, or Quinn, or Puck, or Artie. So, technically, I'm not a murderer. Yet." She reached over and grabbed a brass rod, one of the columns of a broken trophy, out of a pile of debris leftover from the fight at the trophy case.

"I loved the girl in that office with all of my heart, and now she's gone because of you. And so is everyone I could ever call my friend. _That_ is the kind of thing that turns someone into a monster like you. Since you so conveniently killed any witnesses, that means I have all night to show you how much I'm hurting right now because of you." She prodded the column, broken-end first, into Hank's groin, who shrieked several octaves higher than the last time.

"You're a singer, right? I just increased your range," Santana quipped, a malicious smile spreading on her lips.

Santana then heard something underneath Hank's cries. She punched him in the jaw. He bit his tongue and started moaning more quietly. Santana could now heard voices in the background. She immediately recognized Will calling out for the various members of the club. He was barely audible, on the other side of the school from the sound of it.

She turned to Hank, struggling on the ground. "Tonight's your lucky night, Saunders." Without another word, she reached over and picked up the small marble base of a broken trophy and slammed the edge of it into Hank's throat with all her might. There was the sound of a bone cracking, and Hank began to gurgle as blood filled his throat. She pulled the knife out of his gut and tossed it across the hallway.

"It's over," she whispered to herself, slumping over. She took a moment to examine the scene, and limped off, dragging Hank's body behind her.

She turned the corner and saw Will calling out. She dropped Hank just around the corner and ran toward her teacher, making slow progress due to her leg. Will met her more than halfway and she enveloped him in a tight, desperate hug. She started blubbering, "Oh, God, Mr. Schue, it was Hank. He killed everybody. Puck and I killed him. Oh, God." She let her body go limp as sobs wracked her body. Will helped her to the ground, clutching the girl with all his might.

Santana was only vaguely aware of the police officers and paramedics rushing up and down the hallway. As she held onto Will for dear life, she watched them pass by. They pulled a man in a cop's uniform out of the bathroom, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His face was wet and his body limp.

"Mr. Schue, who's that?" Santana asked. Will shushed her, but she repeated the question.

He answered dutifully, "It's Officer VanDrey. He's a resource officer. I ran into him in the parking lot and sent him in to help you. I guess Hank got to him first."

Santana overheard the paramedics talking about burn marks on the back of his neck: he'd been tased. They'd pulled his head out of a toilet, where he'd apparently drowned despite an obvious struggle to survive.

She called out to a female police office who she saw at the end of the hallway turning the corner to Figgins' office. "The blond girl? The one in the principal's office."

The officer, whose name badge read "Morado", turned to her and joined her where she was still curled in Will's arms. "I'm sorry, Sweetie. She's dead. It looks like someone tried to give her CPR?"

"Yeah, I did and some of the others. For a long time."

"That was smart. You gave her a fighting chance. I know it probably doesn't make you feel any better, but had we gotten here sooner..."

Santana just shook her head _no_ and dug her face into Will's shoulder. His hand began stroking her hair.

Morado continued, "There were two others in there: a big tall boy and a petite brunette girl. There's a chance they may make it. Don't get your hopes up, though. The girl's lost a lot of blood and the boy's got a pretty bad concussion. We're taking them to the hospital."

A pair of paramedics raced by with an unconscious Quinn on a gurney.

"What?"

Officer Morado called out to a fellow police officer, who was following the paramedics. "Hey, Dex, that girl still alive?"

The officer, whose badge read "March" replied, "Yeah, Esther, she's in major tachycardia, but she's breathing. She'll be on the first ambulance out."

This gave Santana the tiniest bit of joy.

"And one of the other paramedic finally found a pulse on that beat-up muscly guy in the hallway," he added.

Santana's heart jumped again. But her face suddenly filled with intense worry.

"He was bleeding from his mouth," she muttered.

March replied, "Bit his tongue."

Santana clutched Will tighter, hiding her face. She remained that way until a paramedic insisted on taking her to the hospital.

* * *

A/N: No, of course Santana wasn't really a serial killer. No, just a traumatized 16-year-old girl pushed to the edge. So many guessed Brad that I thought I'd integrate that into the narrative, since it provides a realistic agent to actually set up the traps. The story's not over, yet, though. Too many characters' lives hang in the balance.

Yeah, and as an apology, I killed my author avatar in a way that was equally parts brutal and undignified.

There's a story out there where Hank and Brittany were dating until he left school, which saddened Brittany, which in turn angered Santana, who used her wiles to get Puck to slushy Rachel in the pilot. Yeah, I'm using that idea. And, yeah, I apologize to that author for borrowing your continuity for my slaughter-fest.


	13. Still Gotta Live With Myself

No Escape: Chapter 13  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee_  
Genre: Mystery  
Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Santana visits Puck in the hospital.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: Okay, so this is the final chapter. This has been a tiring journey for us all, I think. I wanted to get this out because I plan on doing a lot of work over the weekend and I thought I should get the series finished up before the S2 premiere.

* * *

Chapter 13: Still Gotta Live With Myself

The front page of the Lima Times announced that Hank was being posthumously charged with twelve murders, including that of Officer VanDrey.

: : :

Puck awoke in terrible pain. He was in a hospital room with tubes in his arms. Santana Lopez was in the room with him. She was on crutches and there were bandages on her face and knee. She was fiddling with an IV that was attached to his arm. Seeing him awake, she pressed on the switch again, and a measure of relief filled Puck's body, though he was still in a great deal of pain.

"Sorry about that. I'll turn you back up to the full vacation in a minute. I wouldn't try to scream out though. You had a tube down your throat and they just took it out."

Puck's mind drifted back to its last memories: the killer and revelation that Santana was working with that gay kid Ryerson had felt up last year. Afraid, he tried to pull away, but his muscles wouldn't cooperate.

"Careful, now, Puckerman, they've got you on a host of pain medications and muscle relaxants; you're not going anywhere." Seeing the fear in his eyes, she commented, "Oh, calm down, if you would stop thinking with your dick, you'd realize I'm not the bad guy here."

"But you..." he managed to hoarsely whisper.

"...was playing along with Hank so I didn't get _murdered_. Like I told Quinn, I didn't mean to kill anyone last night. And I certainly wasn't working with Hank. He just had a major grudge on Berry. I killed him."

Puck was surprised.

"I told the cops _we_ killed him actually, and that you'd died doing so, but you're too damn rebellious to play along with my lies. I blamed Hank for all the deaths. In a way, it's true."

"How did you get in here?" Puck asked, with a mix of anger and suspicion.

In a syrupy-sweet tone, Santana replied, "Oh, I told the hospital that we used to date. It's such a slasher movie cliché: the only two survivors, reunited by tragedy, fall deeply in love." Santana rolled her eyes.

Puck's thoughts were not on the joke part of her statement.

"Oh, let me clarify that whole 'only two survivors' part," she backtracked sympathetically, "Berry and Finn aren't expected to make it. The doctors are doing everything they can, but Rachel's just lost too much blood. I figured the girl could live on coffee and show tunes alone." Puck wasn't the least bit amused, so Santana continued, "Finn's technically alive. His concussion caused his brain to swell and they didn't get the pressure relieved in time. He's essentially brain dead. I'm not sure they could tell the diff-" Santana trailed off, unable to complete her joke. "His mom's probably going to take him off life support soon, so if you want to say good-bye, don't wait long. Did you know she's dating Kurt's dad?" she remarked, a failed attempt to lighten the mood. "Mr. Hummel's pretty broken up, too, as you can imagine. From what I gather, you tried to save Kurt, so I let him know."

Puck's eyes were pleading for something else though.

"Quinn is in surgery again. It's like her third. The needle injured a ventricle in her heart, something like that. She's the one with the fighting chance. If she does survive, she'll be in bad shape, though. Her heart will be too weak for cheering, or dancing, or even running." Santana held back tears. "Even if she survives this surgery, her heart isn't gonna last more than five, maybe ten years. She'll need a transplant soon."

Puck's gaze didn't falter.

"Her mom's a wreck. She blabbers a lot," Santana explained for no reason other than to delay her next comment. "She miscarried."

Puck's head fell back and tears streamed from his face openly.

Crying as well, Santana remarked gravelly, "It happened long before the stuff with her heart. The stress of that whole massacre was too much for her." She paused to collect herself, "Trust me, Puck, I wouldn't even still be here if I were in any way responsible."

There was a long silence between the two.

"Brittany's gone."

The words hung there for a longer time.

"Bad shit happened to Hank. It's why he was the way he was. I don't condone what he did; even his motive was just some sorry-ass excuse. But I get how he became the way he was. Being a killer kills you inside; it kills your soul. It's happening to me."

Santana picked up a bottle of pills from Puck's side. He looked at her first with fear, then confusion, and finally understanding.

Tears continuing to stream down her face, she told him, "You can tell the cops the truth if you want to. By the time you wake up again, it won't really matter."

Genuine sadness was in Puck's eyes.

"You're a good friend, Puck. I wish that were enough." She rolled the pill bottle through her fingers. "I still gotta live with myself."

With that, she turned up Puck's analgesic IV all the way up, and he quickly fell back to sleep.

The morgue was on the basement floor, appropriately. It was empty. The coroner had just pulled a triple shift and had no doubt took the opportunity to go home. Her name was on the door: "Poppy Falhard," Santana noticed as she walked in.

Brittany's form was not difficult to find under the rows of dead bodies covered in white sheets. Few people were as tall and skinny as her. And Santana had seen Brittany under a sheet many, many times.

Santana pulled the sheet aside and reflected on how beautiful Brittany still was. Santana took the bottle in her hand, opened the cap, and swallowed the entire contents in two dry gulps. Santana crawled onto the cart and curled herself around the body in a position she knew all too well. The drowsiness came faster than she expected.

: : :

**Former Student Charged with Twelve Counts of Murder**

Hank Saunders, 19, a former William McKinley High School student, was posthumously charged with ten counts of first-degree murder, for killing Lima PD Resource Officer Christopher VanDrey and nine members of the WMHS glee club, New Directions.

He was also charged with two counts of second-degree murder: one for causing the miscarriage of a pregnant student, and one for driving another student to suicide; and two counts of attempted murder, for two students who survived despite critical injuries.

As all of the students are minors, their names are being withheld at this time.

Saunders himself was killed during an altercation with two of his intended victims. Details are pending.

: : :

There was a memorial service outside the school a week later. Will tried to give a proper eulogy, but he couldn't speak two sentences before breaking down into tears.

He was a father who'd lost ten children.

Emma cried, too, without shame. Come Monday, she knew her office would never be empty.

: : :

Within a month, there was a large bronze memorial statue outside the auditorium. Proudly emblazoned at the base was "Donated by Sue Sylvester, Winner of 5 National Cheerleading Championships." It was in the shape of a full-size set of rafters, with eleven chairs assembled in rows, each emblazoned with a name.

Puck and Quinn, in a wheelchair, stared at it one cold February morning. In her lap, she carried a collection of items.

On the front row was a wheel chair, "Artie Abrams" emblazoned on the back. His bass guitar was sitting in the seat; the jazz band had placed it there the day before. Beside it was a classroom chair emblazoned with "Tina Cohen-Chang." Quinn handed Puck her a bouquet of flowers she'd picked out. Puck laid them on the seat, whispering to it, "I promised your half of a boyfriend I'd get these for you. Enjoy." He muttered what he could remember and pronounce of the _Kaddish_ under his breath.

In the dead center of the front row was a chair emblazoned with "Rachel Barbra Berry" inside an edged star. Quinn was the one who suggested the design to Sue, who agreed solely to avoid an argument which might cause her former head cheerleader to suffer a heart attack, which would make her look weak for choosing such a weak specimen as a leader.

There was a copy of the sheet music to "Don't Rain on My Parade" on the seat, which the couple knew Will had put there only hours earlier.

To the right of Rachel's chair was Finn's, which included both his name and jersey number. His football helmet lay in the chair. Behind his on the top row were Mike's and Matt's chairs, whose chairs also included their jersey numbers and football helmets.

In the center of the middle row were Kurt's and Mercedes' chairs. Quinn handed Puck a red jacket to put on Kurt's chair and a blouse to put on Mercedes' chair, which Quinn held to her face for a moment before passing it along. "I gave that to her, you know. We were becoming friends."

"I know," Puck replied softly.

Off to one side, where Puck and Quinn usually sat, was a small child's chair, emblazoned with, simply, "Beth." Quinn couldn't bear to look at it, and Puck had to hold her for several minutes, whispering to her to keep stay calm, worried about her heart.

Quinn composed herself and handed Puck the last two items: two small heart-shaped locket necklaces, which he hung on the back left two chairs, which were emblazoned with Santana's and Brittany's names. Their chairs had bronzed pom-poms attached to the seats. Puck hung the two lockets on the inside corners of the two chairs.

"Brittany wore hers underneath her uniform, and Santana always wore hers on the outside; you'd think it'd be the other way around," Quinn commented, "It's like Brittany wanted hers close to her heart, and Santana wanted everyone to see it, even if she did threaten the first person who asked about it. It was a freshman Cheerio recruit. She was so scared, I think she wet herself. I knew about them, and I'm sure a couple of other upperclassmen Cheerios knew what was going on, but we never talked about it."

As Quinn rubbed her chest, which hadn't stopped aching since she got out of the hospital, Puck commented, "Love shouldn't hurt."

* * *

A/N: So, this story goes beyond sad and into the realm of "You've ripped out my heart and _stomped_ on it." Well, never again. You have my word that I will never kill off another character in a _Glee_ fic.


	14. Alt Ending: Just the Thought of You

No Escape: Alternate Ending  
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: _Glee_  
Genre: Mystery  
Rating: T  
Language: English  
Summary: Life doesn't always give you happy endings. But sometimes it does.  
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: So, this has been bugging me for ages. I hate what I did to my readers, so I thought I'd give you an alternate ending. This is not really how I intend for the story to end, but I wanted to give the story a second chance.

* * *

Alternate Ending: Just the Thought of You

Hank woke up.

He'd been having nightmares for the past two weeks. Tomorrow was the day he was finally going to get revenge on Rachel Berry, and ever since he and Brad laid out the plan, he'd dreamt of it going wrong every night. He always died.

The first time, the bomb had worked perfectly, killing Rachel, but the police had arrived in seconds and shot him on sight.

One, he dreamt that he'd had a threesome with Brittany and Kurt, and Brittany had strangled while she was on top of him.

Last night was the most elaborate yet. He'd had to kill almost every member of the club, only to be double-crossed by Santana.

: : :

Hank was convinced that his dream was coming true. He was watching the glee club from the outside window. Tina asked to sing a song. It wasn't the same song as his dream. It was "Something Wonderful" from _The King and I_.

But it _was_ followed by Will insisting they practice "Somebody to Love." So stunned by fear that his nightmare was playing out, Hank forgot to detonate Rachel's chair before she got up. In his dream, he hadn't arrived until after they'd started the song, and now he'd missed his opportunity in real life.

Checking his watch, he realized he'd _have_ to risk detonating the bomb in the middle of the song. It was nearing 4:30 and if any of the glee clubbers touched the door, things would become a thousand times more complicated.

Like the dream.

This time, he thought, he would time it right. He flinched half a second earlier and grinned when Rachel Berry's body went flying into the piano.

: : :

There was instant pandemonium.

An explosion from the risers had thrown both Tina and Rachel to opposite sides of the room.

Finn raced toward Rachel. Artie rolled to Tina. Santana grabbed a panicking Brittany and pulled her to the floor, while Puck did the same to Quinn, trying to get her to calm down, despite his own harried state.

Will leapt straight into action. "Nobody go towards that door. Finn, how's Rachel?"

Will's question was answered by a shriek from Rachel. A piece of plastic was deeply embedded in her right shoulder.

"Finn," she muttered painfully, "it hurts. It hurts so badly." Finn almost laughed at her using perfect grammar even under duress. He helped her onto her back, and she screamed that her other shoulder hurt. Sure enough, her left shoulder was badly dislocated or broken from crashing into the piano.

Will moved to Tina. Her arm was badly burned and bleeding, and she was gasping painfully. But she was alive.

Attempts to call 9-1-1 were in vain. The cell tower was out.

: : :

Hank wasn't wasting any time. Things would _not_ be going sideways, forcing him to pick off all the glee clubbers one by one. He inserted a loaded magazine into his pistol. All those trips to the shooting range with Brad would actually come in handy. A bullet into the brain of Rachel Berry, a bullet in the chest of anyone who tried to stop him or was just in the way.

He yanked the wire connected to the door handle, disarming his booby trap.

Fish, meet barrel.

: : :

While Quinn helped Finn wrap strips of his windbreaker around Rachel's bleeding wound, she tied Rachel's other arm to her torso to immobilize it. Santana was kneeling beside Tina. The girl's coat had been removed, revealing badly blistered skin and a few minor cuts.

Mike held tightly to a struggling Brittany. As she started to slip through his hands, he yelled her name.

Santana screamed from across the room, "Mike, let her go and I kill you."

Mike didn't wait to hear the threat through; he grabbed hold of Brittany's arms and held them against her chest and all but lay on top of her. She was quite strong, which didn't surprise Mike; she was a dancer, but so was he.

Puck watched the door warily, looking back every so often to make sure that Mercedes was keeping Quinn from breaking down.

: : :

Hank decided to go in with guns blazing. So to speak. He had limited ammo. A swift kick to the door. An upraised gun. A single warning shot.

He almost felt sorry for whoever got in his way.

That wasn't true. He _did_ feel bad. No one deserved this. Except for Rachel.

He was a Player. An angel of death.

_Crack_ went the door.

_Crack_ went the gun, firing into the far wall.

_Crack_ went his arm bones as Puck, who was hiding just beside the door, swung a wooden stool with all his strength into Hank's arm.

_Crack_ went the back of his head as Matt rushed him, picking him up, carrying him out the door, and slamming him into the opposite wall full force, demonstrating his skills as a tackle.

: : :

When Hank came to, he was being attended to by a paramedic. His left wrist was handcuffed to his left ankle.

He looked around. Mr. Schuester and most of the glee club was huddled around a pair of police officers, giving statements. Rachel was not present. Neither was Tina. They were likely being taken to the hospital. Puck and Quinn were separated from the group; Quinn was being examined by another paramedic, rather reluctantly it seemed, while Puck hovered over her.

Santana was hugging Brittany tightly, Hank noticed, and he entertained the thought that maybe his dream was right about the two. He thought about the weeks he'd spent covertly scoping out the choir room and the glee club meetings. He'd picked up a lot subconsciously, he supposed.

At this point, a police officer noticed he'd come to. He gave Hank a truly unfriendly look. Hank awaited the string of questions the officer no doubt had, but instead he was treated to his Miranda rights. Hank's eyes drifted away, tuning out the officer. His plan was ruined. He'd run every possible scenario he could think of, awake and in his dreams, but he'd failed miserably.

Then he saw his last ray of hope walked in.

: : :

"What?" Will remarked, "You're kidding me." He looked over the cream business card for a psychiatrist that Brad had just handed him.

Brad made his way to Hank, not saying a word or making eye contact. The cop finished his speech and asked the paramedic uncaringly when he could take the "scumbag" to jail, which had its own medical facilities.

Brad just pulled a water bottle out of his bag, unscrewed it, and held it to Hank's lips. Hank drank thirstily, knowing this would be his one kind gesture for a while.

But not forever. Brad was a genius. He was the master. He would get Hank out of this. He had already set the plan in motion, laying the groundwork: explaining Hank's psychological problems to Will and the cops.

For just a moment, Hank felt like he would still get his revenge.

Then he started coughing.

_Crack_, he remembered. The door. The gun. His arm. His head.

But not the water bottle. When Brad unscrewed it, the plastic ring didn't cracked. It had been previously opened. Chlorine was Brad's signature weapon.

"Finish it," he begged out loud. No one would know who he was talking about. But Brad would.

Brad shook his head.

_No loose ends_, Hank remembered. And remembering would be the last thing he ever did.

: : :

Emma saw a lot of the glee club members for the next few months.

Quinn was there every day.

"I'm just terrified about what could have happened to my baby."

"You're baby's fine," Emma said, for maybe the hundredth time, no less sincerely than the first.

Brittany had nightmares every night, and Santana's parents just understood that their daughter would be sleeping over at her best friend's house for the foreseeable future.

Artie visited a lot, too. Seeing Tina in pain had been difficult for him. She was scarred pretty badly, but Tina being Tina thought the scars were kind of badass.

Rachel was more angry than scared. She wrote choreography from her hospital room to adjust to for Tina's and her injuries.

Will came in a lot, too, unannounced. He was afraid he couldn't protect his kids. Emma told him that he _had_, and that he was like a father whether he knew it or not.

: : :

_One year later…_

New Directions won Sectionals. There was no debating they were the best team.

On the anniversary of the incident, they held a concert outside. They sung about overcoming adversity and mourned the loss of a troubled individual. Rachel and Tina sung a duet to close out the last song. With a single sweep of the arm, they gestured toward the pianist, eliciting applause from the crowd. Brad looked humbled.

After seeing his name on the program, he left the succeeding reception early.

: : :

_Twelve years later…_

All of the original members of New Directions attend their ten-year reunion. It isn't hard for them; they all still live in Lima.

Except for Matt. He transferred out of McKinley at the end of the year and everyone has lost contact with him.

Rachel is McKinley High's choir teacher. A poster for _The Music Man_ is posted over the spot where the bullet struck the wall. For a while, it was just painted over, but the members couldn't help but notice the indentation.

Finn works at Hummel & Sons Tire and Auto. Burt and Carole had gotten married, but Burt succumbed to a heart attack eight years into their marriage. Despite this, the couple was happy in the intervening years. He left the shop to his son and stepson.

Finn and Rachel got married then divorced after five and a half years, but reconciled and are dating again.

Kurt hasn't yet settled down. He lets Finn run the shop, and runs the business side himself, allowing him to travel to visit his boyfriend in Warrentown. His boyfriend doesn't attend the reunion with him.

Puck and Quinn made the foolish decision to try to raise their daughter after high school. After a year, they gave away Beth to an adoptive couple. After high school, Quinn went to University of Northwestern Ohio and became a preschool teacher. She and Puck married after she graduated. Instead of college, Puck started his own pool cleaning business, which was very successful for reasons that Quinn doesn't allow herself to speculate about. They have two children.

Artie studied film in college but works as an accountant in between making TV advertisements for car dealerships.

He and Tina got married straight out of high school. They are what you could call happy. Tina works with both Mike and Brittany at the only dance studio in Lima. Mike is in love with Tina, but has no desire to break up her marriage, so he's still looking for "the one" at 28.

Brittany still has nightmares most nights. Santana never left her side. She became a lawyer specializing in marriage law to help facilitate legislation permittingsame-sex marriage. It's no longer banned in the state constitution, but both marriage and civil unions are prohibited by statutes. She is now a divorce attorney.

Mercedes was an art major at Ohio State University. After graduating, she married her boyfriend, a soccer player who loved karaoke bars. They have three children and she's a stay-at-home mom.

Will is married to Emma. They got married the summer after most of the original New Direction members graduated and moved to Kenton. They attend the reunion by special request from Rachel.

The original New Directions gets on stage and serenades the crowd with Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World."

Afterward, they remain together in a tight group for the rest of the night.

* * *

A/N: Again, I'm not really sure if I like this ending better or not. But I was stuck between be unable to write this chapter and being unable to _not_ write it.

Maybe I'm not satisfied with the ending because I didn't write it for me, but for you. And I'm okay with that.


End file.
